


Last Post

by ElleBrittany



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Did I mention angst, Drugs, Extreme angst, M/M, Magical Realism, Overdose, Suicide, love after death, meeting in the afterlife
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-06 19:57:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/739518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElleBrittany/pseuds/ElleBrittany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach. Sherlock is summoned out of hiding and learns that John has taken his own life. He doesn't react delicately to the news.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> May be triggering if you are sensitive to: suicide, depictions of drug use, and death.

“Why are you calling me? Leave me alone. I’ve got everything under control.”

These were the exact words Sherlock spoke to his brother upon receiving the first call in three years. Why was Mycroft even bothering to contact him at a time like this when nothing of importance was going on? He was still ‘dead,’ but his death had effectively crippled Moriarty’s criminal web (at least for the moment) and any danger they posed to John. He’d repeatedly told Mycroft (indirectly) that things still weren’t right yet; he still needed more time. More time to organize, to prepare for the incoming scandal. Besides, the whole situation would have to be handled especially delicately considering the way things had ended with John. They’d ended that way for a reason of course; he’d needed John to distrust him, was relying on it actually, because if John believed he was a fake – or, if John doubted him at the very least – then everyone else would too.

“Sherlock. This is dire. You need to come in.”

He’d been fine, hadn’t he? Yes, he’d been better than fine, spent some time in America, the Scottish moors – even spent some time with The Woman herself, who had held up her end of the bargain and offered him shelter, food, and a variety of prurient comforts which he’d denied. Of course, there had been some unpleasantries as well, particularly the moment when she’d suggested the idea of revealing him herself, to which he replied that he could just as easily reveal her. Sometime later he wound up sleeping beneath a bridge. That hadn’t lasted too long; countless people owed him favors and he managed to make his way in the underworld with little bother.

“I’ve got it under control,” he repeated again, faster this time because he was annoyed – _very_ annoyed – “This is a private line, how did you even get this number?”

“No such thing as a private line. Now for God’s sake, _come in._ ”

He knew from the icy, unaffected tone of his brother’s voice that this was indeed something wildly important, something unavoidable, something which might force him to reveal himself prematurely. He let out a heavy sigh. _Fine. So be it._

“Alright,” he said finally. “Get me an escort.”

In preparation, Sherlock dressed well, not wanting to give Mycroft the idea that he’d been scrounging for lodgings, even though this was exactly the case. When the car pulled up the driver wouldn’t tell him where they were going, but they eventually pulled up to St. Bart’s. It was two in the morning.

“Is this about my riding crop?” Sherlock snapped the moment he exited the car. Of course, Mycroft was waiting outside, dressed in a dark grey tweed overcoat and sucking on a menthol cigarette.

“No. It’s John.”

 “Oh, what now? Got himself in a bit of a scuff?”

Mycroft frowned and sighed, flicked the cigarette away. Sherlock could almost read it in his brother’s face, exactly what was going on. He felt his mouth drop open at the very thought, the slightest inclination that John would do such a thing – trip up and get himself badly injured or even killed. No he wouldn’t – he was John, John Watson, John Watson the soldier, the army doctor, the impenetrable, the immoveable—

“Oh, stop it,” Sherlock snapped. “This is a put on. Let me see him.”

Everything that followed was an absolute daze. He floated down the hallway, wincing at the white fluorescent lights which bleached his skin, made his hands appear wan and sickly translucent – and he followed Mycroft to another little room, an office – Molly’s office? And Molly was there; her hair was parted to the side and she was hugging him and crying and telling him she was sorry. “Molly,” he heard himself say. “Why are you crying? You knew I was fine. But it’s good that you’re wearing the lipstick. You look nice. It looks nice.” This only seemed to worsen the effect, and suddenly she was sobbing into his chest and squeezing the breath out of him. He didn’t know what to do. It had been a while since another human being had touched him affectionately. Was he supposed to say something kind?  Was what he had just said not kind, not good?

He held her at arm’s length and resolved instead to kiss both of her cheeks. This was the first time he’d ever had someone else’s tears on his face, and he quickly brushed them off.

“Molly, you knew I was safe. In fact, you ensured it.”

“That’s not what…” she trailed off, wiping her face on her coat. “I’m sorry. Ignore that. Just…just follow me.”

Another moment they were floating down another hallway and approaching the mortuary – the _mortuary_? – and then he was staring into the face of a pale ghost of a body, and the body was stocky and blonde and carved from marble, and there was a peculiar scar on the front of the shoulder and the chest was newly stitched up. He glanced at the identification. No. That was not possible.

“What is this?” He actually felt angry. “Is this your idea of a joke?”

Neither of them answered.

“At least tell me the cause of death and how long he’s been in here, and why you expect me to care.”

“Just over twenty-four hours,” Molly said faintly. “The full toxicology report will take another week but we’re fairly certain it was a mild sedative. Probably benzo…well, you know.”

Sherlock gave a dismissive wave. “Yes, yes, sleeping pills _obviously_ , he even foamed at the mouth a bit near the end. Right – _and_ _just who is this_?”

“Sherlock,” her voice sounded far away. “Sherlock, it’s him. It’s really him. I’m sorry.”

“No it isn’t,” he said simply. “But I don’t doubt he would have chosen the quietest way out, something painless and nondescript after so many years chasing danger.”

He glanced at the body again, and this time something forced him to look away. Suddenly he felt cold. And sick.

John would have preferred a quiet death. Yes, it all made sense. Sherlock cleared his throat again and forced himself to really _look_. Coif of blonde hair with a sprinkling of greys, intense frown lines, skin pale and pulled taut – he’d lost weight in the final months; just over a stone – why? Tried to analyze, to deduce, could produce nothing. Someone asked if he was alright. Why wouldn’t he be alright? For some reason he was on the floor.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft offered a gloved hand.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock spat. “Piss off. I’m fine.”

He turned to leave, started to run, he didn’t even know what from, but his chest was caving in and he was laughing. It was hardly a laugh at all but rather a reflex to stop him from crying because that wasn’t really John was it? No, of course it couldn’t be. That was impossible. John was a soldier and soldiers only died in battle.

_I was a doctor._

“Shut up, John.”

And besides, it was John, and John couldn’t die.

“You’ve really done it,” he heard himself say. “You’ve outdone me. Very clever.”

Without giving any attention to where he was going, he kept walking, observed an intense stinging in his eyes and took a deep breath. John couldn’t die. John had lived for him, had killed for them, hadn’t they had – well, _something_? “You’re not dead,” he said firmly, to himself and himself only as he stood stupefied on the pavement. Pavement? He couldn’t even remember coming outside.

“You’re not dead. You’re not anything. I was just talking to you.”

“Sherlock.” He turned, gazed vacantly into the eyes of his brother. “I _am_ sorry,” Mycroft murmured. “We all are.”

“Do you have a cigarette?”

Mycroft provided one – full tar – even lit him up, and deposited a small thumb drive into Sherlock’s pocket.

“His last blog post. It was never published. We think it was meant for you.”

“You’ve put on three pounds. You’re letting that Frenchman trim your hair again.”

Mycroft glanced up slightly and nodded. Sherlock started to walk off again, feeling rather like a floating head, and not in the good way. His chest felt so heavy that it was hard to breathe, and he was forced to abandon the cigarette halfway. Didn’t matter; it wasn’t helping; he’d need something stronger. He pulled out his phone and sent a vital text. Mycroft offered to put him up for the night but refused to make arrangements for a hotel.

“Why?”

“You know why, Sherlock.”

“But I’m fine. I really am _fine_.”

The next thing he knew a black car pulled up and they were off. Traffic was torturously slow. Neither Mycroft nor the driver paid him any mind as he stuck his head out the window to vomit. Jesus. Was this how John had felt? _I was so alone, and I owe you so much._

He fell back onto the seat and closed his eyes as a strange whistling arose from the back of his throat, a funny little sound in between a hiss and a whimper.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock follows John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> contains suicide/details of drug use/death so watch your step okay?

“Are you going to be alright?”

Sherlock said nothing, hardly noticed how unusually attentive his brother was being for once. He’d offered a cup of tea which Sherlock was still holding on his lap. Royal Albert bone china. Butterfly handle, gold trim, dotted with chrysanthemums. The sitting room was dark and pristine, furnished in mahogany. He peered into the cup and instantly felt ill, had to put the thing down. Mycroft sat down on a winged armchair across from him and sighed.

“Sherlock.”

“Are you going to let me smoke in here?”

“I’d rather you didn’t but –”

But he had already lit one and was lazily puffing away, not enjoying it, not really tasting anything. He felt crushingly exhausted, shaken and awash in a torrent of stilted recollections, fragments of dreams and nostalgia, here was John’s wrist cuffed next to his own, and here were John’s arms wrapped around him, tossing him onto the bed after he’d been hit with a sedative a sedative a sedative a _what_? And his room, what happened to his room, what happened to Mrs. Hudson?

“What happened to Mrs. Hudson?”

“Mrs. Hudson is alive and well. And safe.”

Mycroft reached for an ornate bottle of brandy, poured two glasses and handed one to Sherlock, who knocked it back like it was water. Not much waiting left to do now.

“I need to tell you something.”

Mycroft took an absent swig and withdrew the silver cigarette case from his jacket.  “I know what you're up to. I saw you.”

“I know you saw me; I’m simply telling you that I don't want you to interfere.”

“I can’t let you do that. You know I can’t.”

Sherlock jumped to his feet, stole the cigarette case from his brother’s hand, gestured wildly with it. “You didn’t save him. You knew and you did nothing, therefore _you killed him._ So don’t interfere.”

Mycroft was on his feet now too, face folded in exasperation and fatigue; he’d struck a nerve, finally. “You’re _threatening_ me. For Heaven’s sake!”

“Quite right,” Sherlock snapped, flicking the nub of his cigarette across the room, where it landed unceremoniously on the oriental runner-rug with a tiny flurry of sparks.

As he whipped across the hall and shut himself in the nearest guest-room, he could hear Mycroft muttering frantically on the phone. Let him sweat, then. So be it. He glanced around the room, scoffed at the wallpaper which was pale blue and dotted with seashells – easily located the hidden surveillance and disabled it – fished around in Mycroft’s office for a laptop, returned to the room, made quick work of the password, put in the thumb drive.

The last post was a video. Grainy, shot in the dark. A shot in the dark.  But John was there and there was John, a golden light in the center of the abyss. John looked weary and sick, pained, exhausted, creased and pressed. The first time he watched the video he understood nothing, was too distracted by every little essence of John, the way he squinted in frustration, tugged absently at his cardigan, ruffled his hair. Sherlock watched the video twenty times, memorized every inch of the thing. And then, suddenly, he understood what the man was saying:

_“I don’t know why I’m doing this. Why am I doing this?”_

“I don’t know, John,” Sherlock mumbled, letting a slender finger trace the outline of John’s neck and shoulders, slightly pixelated, blurred. “Why are you doing this?”

His veins were suddenly jutting like cords strung taut under his waxen flesh, and they were singing. In went the needle and a smoky crimson wisp unfurled into the syringe. His eyes fell shut; constellation of light dappling behind them, sparkling in the blackness. Hit of cocaine, gums bloody, not nice to mix these things, would probably stop his heart and that was a bit not good. Mycroft would not be pleased with the state of his laptop, all speckled with blood and crystalline powder. So much blood everywhere. Bloody arm and mouth, metallic on the tongue, on his hands too. John’s blood(lessness) on his hands.

_“I watched him jump. My best friend.”_

“You idiot. You never saw me do anything!”

Knock on the door. Mycroft, no, the knock was timid, soft. Had Mycroft seriously sent for _Molly_ to look after him?

Molly: “Sherlock, can I come in? I just want to talk.”

The needle again slipped in beautifully, sinking into the waiting flesh, bending just so, thin as a hair. The blossom of blood. John’s voice lilting into the abyss:

_Every day it’s the same. Some days it’s worse. I see it perfectly in my head. I see him on the pavement, covered in blood with his head bashed in and I’ve got his hand, and his hand is cold and limp and some part of me doubts that it’s even his hand, that it’s even his body lying there, covered in blood all bashed in on the pavement. And it’s funny._

“It’s not fucking funny,” Sherlock snapped. Depressed the plunger again, didn’t appreciate the way the cocaine was sticking to the laptop due to the heat, gumming it all together – he lit another cigarette, prepared another needle, stuck it in, sucked down another line. The end.

Molly: “Sherlock. Please.”

“Go away, I’m fine." But he’s not fine, not when John’s talking again, and John’s so real and so solid and Sherlock is studying the misleading folds in the skin and the clothes which denote that this was a man once, that this body breathed and thrashed and fought not to die – and then John says

_Yeah, I suppose it’s a bit funny. I’ve been to war, and I’ve seen men die, and men have died even though I was supposed to be looking after them, and I’ve been shot, and when I got shot I was afraid._

Mycroft: “I’m coming in.”

“Do what you will,” Sherlock mumbled through a mouthful of smoke. “It’s your bloody house.” He tossed the needle across the room, laughed as it bounced comically onto the bed.

Suddenly he was sprawled on the ground and convulsing. That was weird. The cigarette fell from his mouth and there were hands on him, they were Molly’s hands, warm and small and soft, and he stayed perfectly still. He felt hot all over; sweaty, anxious. Wasn’t sure where he was, on the ceiling or on the floor? Looked up at Molly, looked down at his body.

“You could have done something.” The words did not come easily. “And you didn’t.”

Mycroft: “We tried everything, Sherlock. We couldn’t get through to him. For a time we couldn’t even _find_ him. He never went back to Baker Street. Get up. What are you – what did you –?”

_I’m not afraid now._

“I would have come back,” Sherlock managed to say as the bleary yoke of sleep sunk down into him, folding in on him as his eyelids grew heavy, so heavy.

“I would have come back for him. _I did come back for him_.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft shouted. “What did you do?”

He tried to gesture, to explain, found it too painful. Staying awake was too painful. He opened his eyes one last time. Molly had his head cradled in her lap and for the second instance in his life her tears were on his face.

 “Molly. I did tell you. I told you I was going to die.”

Mycroft whipped out of the room probably to call for help. Sentiment. Idiot.

John’s blurry face smiled weakly from the blue glow of the laptop, and as Sherlock smiled back the laptop became a pale square in the vastness, the choke of the void, and the void was vast and impassible, but John kept him anchored for a minute longer because John was an anchor and John was warm – and then the warmth was filling the room and he was wrapped up in it.

_I’m not afraid now. And if there’s any chance that I might see him again – any chance at all – then I can’t wait anymore. I really can’t. I’m divorced, childless, alone, got a limp, and I haven’t got my best friend. And I never got to tell him – well, he bloody well knew, didn’t he? Didn’t you all?_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meeting in the afterlife.

Heaven is 221B Baker Street. Heaven is your smirk reflected in an amber pool of earl grey; the smell of chemicals and dust, a jar of tongues on the mantelpiece; friends of the skull. Heaven is a night spent alone in the mind palace, the sound of John’s footsteps canting up the stairs, the endless murmur from Speedy’s, the smell of coffee, scones, and gunpowder. Sherlock dreams fervently of 221B Baker Street, fancies himself curled up tight on the sofa; windows rattling, curtains billowed out, anticipating an oncoming storm. He likes that quite a lot, when the flat smells of rain, when the air is full of static. This is where he composes. This is where he takes cases, where cases take him. This is the world on the verge of something; on the verge of everything.

He doesn’t know how or why but he’s back. He’s home. He snaps out of bed – his bed, in his room, and nearly collapses to the floor because his body feels a bit different, a bit light and transparent as though conceived of vapor, but this is fine, in fact, it’s better than fine. He’s dressed in the usual crisp white shirt and black trousers, and his left sleeve is rolled up and his arm is dappled with bruises and nicks, so he knows this must be real and not some elaborate hoax. Either that or he’s higher than he’s ever been, which is not entirely unlikely. He looks down at his arm, feels the inevitable stab of regret. “Won’t do it again."

He continues to explore the flat, finds that everything is as it should be. He hunts around for evidence of John and he finds it; myriad of flannel shirts and jumpers in the closet, bed made with military precision, a single golden hair clinging to the windowsill, and, curiously, an empty bottle of sleeping pills on the night-table. John’s favorite mug is sitting on the kitchen counter, and there are biscuits in the cupboards. Sherlock tries the telly. It works and his favorite crap show is on, but he’s starting to find it a bit strange that John would have remained at 221B and even gone to the trouble of maintaining it in this meticulous fashion. He considers for a fleeting moment that John was dead and cold on a slab just a few hours ago. What a nasty bit of business that was. And how utterly impossible! There is no 221B without John.

He studies the bruises on his arms again, turns them over, and squeezes his hands into fists. Everything looks and feels as it should, although he still feels slightly chilly all over. He reclines on the sofa and assumes his thinking position. Mind Palace. He sinks in, remembers the bite of the needle dipping into his flesh, plucking the veins like strings. Wasn’t he just on the floor, wasn’t the world blurring and crashing around him, wasn’t he just staring into the void, focusing every iota of his higher processing on one pale blue square floating in the vastness, wasn’t he holding on to John’s voice, the twitch of the weak smile, the doctor defeated, the soldier at a loss. Wasn’t he just leaning his head out a car window, wasn’t he just stealing a cigarette? He thought of Mycroft, best to text his brother, yes? Let him know that he’s safe and sound and not dead, right? He reaches for his phone but the thing doesn’t have any reception. He calls but there’s no answer. Odd.

He delves deeper into the cushions, rolls onto his side, folds himself up tight, gets ready to descend into some much-needed rest – and that’s when he hears it.

 

**

 

John is outside on the roof when he senses it; when he senses _him_. _Outside_ is a relative term in this place, though. He learned that when he first arrived, and he remembers it with a strange bitter nostalgia, the first time he learned that there really was no such thing as “going out,” that he was trapped like a rat in a cage, trapped in a memory. At first it was nice. He wasn’t expecting it to be so nice. He woke up in his bed, saw that he was home, observed the empty bottle of sleeping pills on the night-table with casual indifference – mostly because he felt perfectly fine. No more pain; no more limp. _If this is death_ , he’d thought at first, _then I suppose it’s not so bad._

And it wasn’t so bad. The cupboards were perpetually stocked; there was cable and Wi-Fi, and the weather was always a very agreeable 22 degrees. It was quiet, but not too quiet. In death he found that he’d amassed an incredible patience for waiting. Waiting wasn’t so bad, not at first. He’d expected Sherlock to be here – all of his affectations were strewn about the flat, the skull; the test tubes full of pus, closet full of dressing gowns and expensive shirts. Days and nights began to roll into each other; he found himself constantly dreaming of his former life; of Harry, who would surely follow him now – he thought of Sherlock, too, of course. He’d never gotten over it. It’s not something you get over, watching your best friend jump to his death. His marriage had degraded because of this. She knew it before he did: Sherlock was the only person he’d ever genuinely loved.  

But when he arrived, Sherlock wasn’t there. Every day John searched, hunted for him; where could he have got to? Surely if he – a trained killer – was good enough for heaven then Sherlock was as well. He grew despondent; bored. Eventually, even the slightest moments started blurring together – one minute he’d fix a cup of tea, the next he’d wake up in his bed with no recollection of when or how he’d gotten there. 

The pervasive _emptiness_ of this place, so maddeningly indifferent to his presence, and the realization that _nothing had been promised_ _to him_ inevitably started to make him angry. This is why he decided to go outside. He decided he’d had enough of waiting, and he simply walked across the flat, kicked the door open, and tried to step outside. And then he found himself on the roof, denied access to the street, denied access to anyone else trapped in this hellish paradise. Denied access to Sherlock, if he was even out there. And he had to be out there, right?

He’s on the roof for the fourth or fifth time when he feels it; the strange tickle. It starts at the back of his throat, quickly unfurls into a tremor which crawls down his left side, right through the scar. _Sherlock is here._ It’s not even a question. He jumps to the street (doing so simply places him outside the door to the flat, unharmed) and slowly opens the door. He sees Sherlock, and Sherlock unmistakably sees him. For a long time they do nothing but stare. Stare and stare and stare. There he is, a lithe pale angel perched on the sofa, hair tousled, expression saturnine as ever; eyes wide; dilated.

John understands that in this place you can never really escape the shadow of the thing that killed you. The empty jar of sleeping pills is cemented to the bedside table. Sometimes he’s sure he’s slept for days and occasionally he’ll wake up with foam in his mouth. He studies Sherlock for evidence of the fall; the bashed in head, perhaps even a small bruise at the temple? He sees none of those things. Instead he observes the sleeve of the left arm which is rolled up to the elbow, white flesh mottled with bruises.

A slight tint spreads across Sherlock’s cheeks, and he quickly pulls his sleeve down.

“Oh,” John says. “That’s how you did it.”

“John,” Sherlock says urgently; and to John’s amazement he actually looks confused. “I…I am relieved to see you. To see that you’re all right.” John understands that Sherlock does not react kindly to confusion, but this should be obvious, especially to him. _Don’t you know that you’re dead?_ He wants to ask. But even more than that, he just wants to drink it all in. He can’t really help it. The figure draped on the couch is so _familiar_ , and the flat is too familiar. Now that Sherlock is back it feels like home again; like a place he wants to be. 

So much to say; but now there’s no time. He ventures again, delicately.

“It’s good to see you. Very good. I’m glad you…sorry. Have you figured it out?”

Sherlock is suddenly on his feet (even stumbles a bit) with his right hand outstretched slightly, palm up; the gesture is abject – _deliberate_ , and a familiar electricity is sparkling in his eyes.

 “Some sort of elaborate scheme; someone wanted to coax me out of hiding, to convince me that you were dead --  I _did_ think you were dead, you know, I had to identify your body in the mortuary – do you have any idea what that was like? _Tedious_.”

John slowly raises his head, really studies Sherlock. All of this time spent alone in deep introspection has sharpened his wit, and he immediately senses dishonesty. He nods in the direction of Sherlock’s arm and says slowly, deliberately:

“I know it killed you, seeing me like that. And I am sorry. I’m sorry you had to see that. I was so angry when you died. I was even angrier when I got here and you weren’t here.”

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock mutters, and an annoyed twitch flickers through the man’s brow, crinkling it slightly. John grabs those outstretched hands, squeezes them tight, keeps Sherlock anchored to the floor, anchored to the moment – tethered to himself.  

“Now you’re really dead,” John says simply. “Look around you, _think_. None of this makes sense. Think about how long you’ve been here; how did you even get here? You haven’t got a key. Your phone doesn’t work. The tap works, but there isn’t any plumbing. No wires in the back of the telly, but your favorite show is always on. See?”

Sherlock grips John’s hands back, and those knuckles are as white as John has ever seen them, practically transparent. The flesh seems painted on; lean sinew visibly stretched over the bones, and the tendons jutting. Most unsettling of all are those eyes; pale and _wild_.

“John, I didn’t – I didn’t notice.” Sherlock sounds legitimately shocked. “ _How could I not notice?”_

“It’s all right. It’ll pass.”

John brushes a lock of slightly damp hair away from Sherlock’s forehead. He doesn’t resist pushing his lips to the temple.

**

A terrible anxiety is brewing, mounting, swelling to a crescendo. Sherlock is ready to leap out of his skin, ready to wake up now – _very funny, Mycroft,_ he wants to say. But he knows, somehow, that his brother had nothing to do with this, and, in fact, worked to prevent this. His arm is suddenly killing him, and the pain creeps all over his body, culminating at the crown of his head. His brain is full of memories – his last memories – of life. How to reconcile this, how to extract any semblance of sensible meaning from this? Everything is blurring together and caving in all at once; Molly’s tears on his face, his brother’s outstretched gloved hand, the wasted cigarettes, the dip of the needle, and John, of course, John’s weary face floating in the pale blue square, the only source of light in the blackness of the void. Not now, not anymore. John is here; solid, hands calloused, grip firm. The next thing Sherlock knows, John is kissing the side of his head, his cheek, and his palms, and it is perfect.

Of course, he has his regrets. So many loose ends, so many things which needed doing, so many things which needed saying. No more cases now; no more drive. He doesn’t mind this so much; the hustle and grind did grate on him after a while, and in death he finds he feels quite a lot more like his true self; a brain and not a body. No more burdensome, ruinous body; what good is the body now? He wonders where his real body is; cold on a slab, maybe next to John’s? No use worrying after his brother or Molly now. And so he doesn’t. He feels the weight of John next to him on the sofa. They sit together, gazing in the direction of the kitchen; the hearth of this timeless Eden.

“Are you all right?” John asks. “I could make some tea.”

“I always valued you above the others,” Sherlock says quickly as John wanders off to the kitchen. There is, after all, nothing to lose now.

“I always cared and I hated caring. Never got used to it. I’m still not used to it.”

“I knew it,” John says simply, and he sounds happy. He fills the kettle and clicks it on, and the water boils almost instantly.  “I knew you loved me. Jesus…I feel like I’ve waited forever to hear that. I suppose in a way I _have_ waited forever.”

“Well, yes,” Sherlock mumbles. It’s a bit weird to admit it, let alone say it aloud, but he did love John. Still loves John. “And I am glad to see you. I…wasn’t expecting to see you again.”

“What were you expecting?”

“Nothing. Not this.”

“Did you think you were going to die?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t know what I actually intended.”

“I know exactly how you feel. Took me a while to come to terms with it myself. Was it painful?”

“Yes, but I was smiling. Smiling at a laptop. I was watching your video…it helped.”

John laughs; a sad sound. “I love you too,” he says. “And I always have. Even though you ended my marriage.”

“And your life. Terribly sorry about that.”

John returns to the sitting room with two steaming cups of earl grey, which they sip in contemplative silence. The tea is perfect; not too hot or too cool, sweetened just so, and the whole room smells of bergamot and cinnamon. The room also seems darker and cooler than when he first arrived, and the air is heavy and full of static; the fresh metallic smell of an impending storm.

“You don’t have to apologize. I would have ended things a lot sooner if it weren’t for you.”

Sherlock drains the last of the tea, which warms him all over. John says something about how much better he looks; not as pallid and waxen, not as dead. How strange _to be dead_ , how unexpectedly welcome. This lulling of his mind. Strange to have a quiet mind for once.  Suddenly his eyes are heavy and his body is sinking into the sofa which feels velvety, cool, and also smells of rain. The deep grey London light seeps into every corner of the room, and the next thing he knows, John is pulling him down and they are both sinking in together; impossibly warm and content. He’s never felt so comfortable in his life; never felt safe enough for that sort of thing. The humanness of the moment is so alien to him; the fleetingness of it all. So transient; and what’s worse, he’s realizing that it was all for naught. He might have actually preferred nothingness to this. He doesn’t care much for waiting – this is a _waiting room,_ after all – John explains that they can’t stay since they aren’t waiting for anything, not even death. Suddenly the sofa is feeling more like a bed and he’s thinking so intensely, so intensely that he may as well be dreaming. Three decades spent wandering a dying earth, teeming with idiots, like-minded, docile slaves, so much potential wasted. He’s only sampled a handful of minds as clever as his own – Irene Adler’s for example – and then he realizes that if she had prematurely revealed him then he and John might have stayed alive and been happy.

So goes the mill, the slow churn of inevitability. The cosmos is indifferent to him, is indifferent to all things, and it always has been. John kisses the back of his neck, and the kiss leaves a cool impression just under his nape. It stings slightly and smells of eucalyptus. He turns around, kisses John’s mouth, is surprised at the softness, the shyness, the wind rattling the curtains, the room falling to ashes around them, two bodies marooned on the sofa. John’s kisses grow more earnest; he bites. Sherlock bites back. Everything smells of rain and eucalyptus, the rain is filtering in through the ceiling, filling up the mugs with hot water, which quickly turns into tea. The world – their world – is ending but they keep kissing, keep laughing, keep smiling into the face of impending oblivion. They know that this is the last stab at self-determination they will ever have.

Everything is hot and sticky and when Sherlock kisses John’s eyelids he understands fundamentally that this is the end. John was waiting for him and now that he’s here there’s no more waiting to be done and that’s it, that’s the end. The deluge quickly turns to a flood. They laugh, kiss, close their eyes, exist. Everything smells of smoke and tea; the walls crumble and collapse, the coffee-table is overturned and floats away alongside the mugs and test tubes, the skull, the jar of tongues, an infinite number of books. Everything is leaving because everything was borrowed. Nothing was promised to them, not even their bodies; not even their lives. In the end, it all floats away.

They rise from the sofa, wade across the now empty room, purged of all familiarities and affectations, little more now than a plain white set piece; plaster and wood. The front door swings open. John grips his hand. They are knee deep in the water and it keeps rising. 

Together? Together.

Water, Sherlock thinks. His last thought. From whence we came and now we return. Elegant.

-fin-

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am certain that the subject matter alone will deter most people from looking at this one, but if you have read this entire thing and given it a chance then I cannot thank you enough. I would highly appreciate any feedback you have to offer, and I will respond to every person who leaves a comment.
> 
> Some other quick things:  
> I really like exploring dualism through Sherlock's character. I do it a lot in A Study in Repression and I had to do it here as well. I can't help it, it's canon: "I am a brain, Watson. The rest of me is a mere appendix."  
> I also have a pretty intense aversion to bodies of water. I wonder if this was an attempt at reconciliation.
> 
> origin of the title: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Last_Post

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to my beta reader, loveanddeathandartandtaxes, for the speedy, insightful, and reliable feedback.
> 
> and thank you to anyone and everyone who gives this one a chance.


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